


Golden Like Daylight

by pwk072347



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, sonny is a national treasure and needs to be protected at all cost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28382232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwk072347/pseuds/pwk072347
Summary: Harry genuinely feels when he looks at Sonny now, it’s like basking in bright golden daylight after waking up from a decade-long dark night, and he can never look away.
Relationships: Harry Kane/Son Heung-Min
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Golden Like Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Taylor Swift's "Daylight."
> 
> Brief mention of covid-related quarantine and preventive measures, but not in detail.

Something has changed, Harry thinks, but he hasn’t figured out what yet.

It snowed last night. Icicles hanging from branches decorate the trees like Christmas as Harry speeds through the streets of North London. He is running late this morning, his tyres skidding on the frozen road when he turns a little too sharp into the front gate of Hotspurs Way. He climbs out of the driver’s seat and jogs toward the building, snow crunching noisily beneath his feet.

As expected, the dressing room is empty. He assumes most of the team are either in the cafeteria or already out on the ground. Despite how early it is in the day, the dressing room is already a mess. Harry scoffs at the clothes, bags, and personal gadgets of the usual suspects thrown haphazardly all over the place.

He strides to his locker, dumps his bag, then takes off his jacket, revealing the training gear already worn inside to save time. On his left, Sonny’s locker looks much more in order compared to the state of the room, his fashionable street clothes folded nicely and stacked neatly on top of each other. Harry smiles when he sees a sky blue and gray scarf draped over the hanger, half hidden by Sonny’s coat, a Christmas present Harry gave him last year.

Kane and Son. This seems to be what everyone is talking about right now. The dynamic duo. The lethal strike team of Tottenham’s attack. The telepathic connection of one mind split into two bodies.

The turn of the tide befuddles him. The press hasn’t always been kind to them in the past, quick to pitch them as rivals for goal, or question their capability to work together. Faceless journalists have at times called him selfish and a ball hog, and constantly downplayed Sonny’s contribution. The worst was probably how in the last two seasons, they claimed his injury “released Son” to score during his absence, which pretty much sums up how dysfunctional they are as a pair to the pundits.

Harry honestly doesn’t understand the hype. He and Sonny have played together for over five years, and he’d like to think they have a pretty good rapport, both on and off the pitch. Still, he has to admit something is different this time around. They’ve combined to score twelve goals in the league so far, when the number averaged only four per season in the past, and it’s not even the New Year. He’s just racking his brain to reason why.

Not wanting to expose himself to the weather more than necessary, Harry takes the detour once out of the dressing room, opting to go through the gym for the door that’s closer to the training pitch. The thick snow outside reflects the bright sunlight through the floor-length glass wall, temporarily blinding him as he steps into the long rectangular room.

There are indeed already some lads out on the ground. Harry’s eyes immediately pick out Sonny from the crowd. He is bundled up cozily in their salmon orange training gear, with the black neck warmer pulled up to his chin, and his Spurs knit cap pressed so low his fringe is flattened and poking his eyes. Harry chuckles, remembering that Sonny is still not acclimated to London’s winter after all these years.

He is quick to figure a snow fight is going on. As he watches, a point seems to have been won, for Sonny and his side of three erupt into a silent fit of celebration. Harry sees Gio dashes over, all gleeful grin and flailing arms, and throws himself onto Sonny’s back from an odd angle. Sonny catches him just fine though, and the two of them parade wildly around the field, piggyback style, before Sonny gently lowers Gio back onto the ground. He makes it look effortless, but Harry doesn’t miss how seconds before the jump, Sonny bends his knees slightly, his arm muscles flexing as he extends both gloved hands backward.

Harry briefly wonders whether he does that with Sonny too, then berates himself with a roll of the eyes for even questioning that. He is acutely aware of how attuned they are to each other. How he can immediately sense Sonny’s approach from anywhere on the pitch, his body automatically moving into action. How his heels will dig just that much deeper into the ground, his arms outstretched, anticipating the short loss of breath as a body suddenly slams flush against his, a pair of strong thighs squeeze his sides, and a soft buttock settles firmly into his palms.

It’s Pavlovian. It’s instinctive. Throughout the years, Harry becomes accustomed to their arms circling tightly around each other’s shoulders or lower back, the faint smell of sweat as faces are buried into necks, the murmuring of ecstatic nonsense almost drowned out by their thumping heartbeats, the ghost touch of hot lips against burning skin. It’s woven into the fabric of the game, helping to ground him during those moments of euphoria. It’s like second nature, it has always been.

Harry hasn’t realized he stopped to watch them play. The snow fight resumes, all six players scrambling to gather crunching white snow into solid balls. Dele is the first to straighten up. Arching his arm high above his head, he throws the snow ball at a spot right in front of Sonny’s moving direction. Harry frowns. There’s a wide span of snow-covered ground behind them all, and Harry absentmindedly thinks if it was he, that’s where he’d put the ball.

The game plays out exactly as he imagined. Sonny veers sharply in his track, and darts through the narrow space between Reggy and Winksy, escaping into the clear. His original spot vacated, the snow ball flies straight through and hits Eric squarely on the head. Harry is pleased to see his prediction validated, though judging by Dele’s smug grin as Eric tries to dust any remaining snowflake out of his hair, that might have been his target all along.

This. This almost prophetic read of Sonny’s movements is new. He has watched highlights of every one of their combined goals this season, and fans in the comments marvel at how he seems to anticipate Sonny’s run with precision to a fault. The focus of their wonder, Harry muses, is not exactly correct. He has always had a knack for spotting openings in the opponent’s half, a talent he’s more comfortable to embrace as he settles into the No.10 position in recent years. What’s new is this level of confidence he has in Sonny’s capability to be where the ball needs him to. It’s as though every micro stretch, turn, and twitch of his muscles is magnified and played in slow motion in Harry’s eyes. And they speak to him, saying _Go for it, I’m ready_. It’s the cause for such inexplainable trust that he’s still struggling to comprehend.

Something vibrates in his pocket as he reaches the door, and he realizes he forgot to take his phone out. It’s his agent, sending over some details of an endorsement contract. Harry fires back a quick reply, promising to look at them later.

His gaze lingers on the second message thread. He and Sonny don’t text constantly, though they have managed to keep a daily streak, even on days they see each other at training or games. He taps on the thread, and laughs when confronted with the video of cats failing to jump properly that Sonny sent him last night. Sonny is as humorous and witty online as he is in person, the language barrier not stopping him from expressing himself with the latest memes or those stickers that are apparently popular in Asia.

Harry continues to scroll back until he pauses at a segment that is all words. He checks the date: a Monday mid-November, during international break.

**hm_son7:** still isolating at the Vienna hotel

**hm_son7:** tested negative. guess you can’t be too careful

Then ten minutes later, because Harry was at practice and hadn’t got to his phone.

**hm_son7:** I want to be back, H

Harry scrolls down to see he replied the usual platitudes when he briefly had time to check his phone after practice – ensuring Sonny that he would be OK as long as him kept to the bubble, wore his mask, and sanitized his hands. Sonny read them but didn’t reply. He didn’t think too much of it at the time.

Harry had of course by that point watched the Amazon documentaries. Partly lured by the buzz and excitement surrounding it. Partly due to some masochistic desire to see what the team was doing when he was away injured.

He almost regretted it not long into the seventh episode. It was honestly hard to watch, the team clearly struggling under the onslaught of injuries and busy schedule. About half way through the episode, Sonny appeared on screen, dressed in plain clothes, in what looked like the infirmary. The pain from his arm was clear to Harry, and apparently to the camera crew as well, since Harry could still see the grimace on his face even when he was surrounded by physios prodding and poking at him from every angle. Harry couldn’t help but winced.

One of the physios suggested they need to have a closer look, take some scans just to be sure. Harry’s heart clenched when he saw Sonny’s body language immediately tensed up. He turned around a little frantically, asking whether they really need the scan repeatedly in a tiny, unsure voice so unlike him.

As the camera closed in, Sonny dropped his head between his shoulders, and muttered with a miserable frown, “the scan will show everything.” His figure somehow seemed smaller under the concerned stares of the physios, the wave of fear emanating from him, tinged with a waft of stubborn defiance, was palpable to Harry even through the screen.

Harry felt the air punched out of his lungs. He closed the browser before the result from the scans was announced. He already knew what happened.

The memory hit him like a freight train as Harry was getting ready for bed that night at St. George’s Park, and he kicked himself for not noticing it earlier. Sonny was not worried about getting the virus, about _getting sick_. He was afraid, just as he did all those months ago, of _not being able to play_ because of it. Sonny, the everlasting bundle of energy, was scared he couldn’t be there for the team when they needed him. He was willing to conceal injury and perhaps bear sickness to do so, even when he was already giving them his everything. Harry thought his heart broke and swelled simultaneously at that.

So he texted Sonny, despite how late it was.

**harrykane:** see you on the pitch soon mate

Sonny texted him the smiley face emoji surrounded by hearts not long after.

Of course, everything turned out fine. When Harry returned to Enfield on Friday, Sonny was already there, dashing around like an over-enthusiastic puppy, dangerously close to annoying the hell out of some lads still tired from international duty. But when Sonny greeted him with the usual all-consuming hug, Harry didn’t miss how his fingers trembled as they clutched at the hem of Harry’s shirt in a death grip. So Harry held him closer, and was rewarded with a blinding smile.

Maybe this is it. He probably should have noticed earlier, but after knowing each other for more than five years, he is really _seeing_ Sonny for the first time. Not just the diligent runner on the pitch, or the jolly mood-maker in the dressing room, but the fierce loyal fighter willing to put himself on the line whenever the occasion arises. And what a sight it is to behold! They’ve made endearments about it from his surname, but Harry genuinely feels when he looks at Sonny now, it’s like basking in bright golden daylight after waking up from a decade-long dark night, and he can never look away.

Harry returns his phone to the dressing room, then takes the direct route through the hallway out onto the field. Training is about to start; he can see the coaches calling everyone from the far side of the pitch. Snow fight cut short, the boys meander back toward the door, jostling each other playfully along the way. Sonny spots him from afar, and jumps up waving at him excitedly. Warmth gushes from his chest to fill the ends of his limbs as he raises a hand and waves back.

And Harry thinks he will do anything for that boy. The thought settles gently in his mind like snowflakes as Sonny strays from the group and jogs toward him. For Sonny – whose dictionary doesn’t contain the phrase “hold back,” damn his lack of self-preservation – the least Harry can do is his everything to make sure Sonny has the best time shining on this lily-white battlefield of North London he chooses to fight in. The ingredients are all already there, the conviction simply wills Harry to watch him that much closer, sense him that much sharper, and trust him that much more to bring wonders beyond imagination. _Anything that makes Sonny smile is a good thing_. He’s stated so in public, and said so in private to Sonny, who half-jokingly gave him a touched heart eye.

Harry holds his arms wide, easy as breathing, and Sonny barrels head first into his chest, nose immediately nuzzling up to the crook of his neck. He huffs out a chuckle from impact, which is promptly drowned out by the jumbled retelling of what he missed so far this morning. He removes the knit cap, and combs his fingers through slightly matted hair. On instinct, Harry places a kiss, light as feather, on Sonny’s temple, then presses his lips to the crown of Sonny’s head, this time firm and solid. There’s the faint scent of citrus, and what smells unmistakably _him_. Sonny purrs contently beneath his ear, eyes closed.

Things will never be the same from now on, Harry thinks, and he won’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Sonny's injury segment in the documentary literally shattered my fragile heart and left me emotionally compromised for weeks. He, and all players featured in that episode, deserve all the cuddles, sunshine, and rainbows in the world.
> 
> Let's pretend this story took place before mid-December, shall we?  
> Hopefully the God of Football will bless this wonderful ship from now on, make sure neither one gets injured (knock on wood) and give them plenty of rest, then maybe this helpless band of misfits we somehow love unconditionally might actually achieve something this season, for heaven's sake (facepalm)
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated with immense gratitude :)


End file.
